


Rest in perpetual despair

by Apuzzlingprince



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, References to Cursed Child
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-10
Updated: 2016-08-10
Packaged: 2018-08-07 20:22:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7728523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Apuzzlingprince/pseuds/Apuzzlingprince
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Not so much rest in peace, Harry Potter, more rest in perpetual despair.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rest in perpetual despair

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't much like Cursed Child, but I liked enough of it to want to write some fic. So, here you go!

As Voldemort descended into his personal oubliette, he lit the lamps lining the walls with the deluminator he had taken off the Weasley boy twenty two years prior. When he reached the last step, there was no need to light anymore lamps; the perpetually lit lantern in the middle of the room kept the landing bright. He pocketed the device and strode across the room, over to a hunched body chained to the wall with large, black manacles. They were muggle in design but wizard in function. Nothing except parseltongue could open them, and his prisoner, while once as gifted as he in the language, had been muted long ago.

“Hello, Harry.”

The man didn’t look up at him. He’d stopped doing that sometime after his sixth year in captivity. Voldemort reached down and ran the tips of his fingers through Harry’s unruly hair, pushing it behind his ears.

“Shall we have a game of chess?”

He hadn’t expected any sort of response so he wasn’t disappointed when he didn’t get one. Harry didn’t even twitch. He released Harry’s wrists one after the other, and then pulled the man into his arms, guiding him across the room while his scarcely-used legs wobbled and shook like those of a newborn fawn. He was settled into a plush red chair and had an ankle magically secured to the floor, least he try to escape in the middle of their game. Voldemort then sat down opposite him and summoned tea for them both.

“To my great surprise, you’ve been spoken of recently.” The tea Voldemort set down on Harry’s side of the table was in a plastic rather than ceramic cup. Last time he’d given Harry anything capable of being broken into shards the man had attempted to slit his own throat. A basic healing spell had dealt with that, though Harry had breathed with a rasp for the following fortnight. 

“You remember Umbridge, don’t you? She tells me the Malfoy boy has been asking about you,” he continued conversationally.  “I suppose the child isn’t listening in history class. How I won the war is explicitly and repeatedly stated.” He sipped his tea. Harry made no move to touch his own. “It’s mandatory education. Part of the exam. I expect he’d just found out about that and goodness knows that boy is too spoilt to bother opening a book.”

Voldemort hunched over the chess board and nudged a pawn forward. He didn’t have to worry about the boy refusing to play; he was desperate for mental stimulation and by now he had learned that Voldemort was the only who could provide it.  

After a moments silence, Harry moved one of his own pawns.

“Still, to have your name spoken by the younger generation as something other than an expletive… such a novel thing.” Voldemort moved another piece. Harry followed suit.

By the time they finished their game, Harry’s tea had gone cold. He disposed of it with a flick of his wand and stood, pulling Harry into his arms and carrying him back over to the manacles. He barely moved as his wrists were secured above his head.

“You know, Harry…” Voldemort licked his lipless mouth as he examined his prisoner. “I would be more inclined to show you kindness if you were more receptive to my attentions. I’m starting to tire of this marionette act.”

When Harry pointedly turned away from him, Voldemort felt a surge of frustration that he quickly quelled with the reassurance that he had decades to train Potter to be exactly what he wanted him to be. He just had to be patient.

“Very well, then. I’ll give you a year to re-consider.” And then he turned, striding his way back upstairs and into his study. It was a bright, sunny day, and Voldemort smiled at the serenity of it, stepping over to the window to better enjoy the warmth of a sun Harry Potter hadn’t seen in twenty two long years.


End file.
